


Pilgrim

by brasspetal



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A bit of canon divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brooding Crowley, Cold environment, Feelings Realization, Love Letters, M/M, Pining, before the main story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: He can press his cheek against the ground and listen to that new cracking burst of language. The land communicates while he lies awake translating into madness.--Crowley goes on a pilgrimage to ruminate over his feelings for Aziraphale and writes him letters he doesn’t send.





	1. The Language of Ice

_Aziraphale,_

_The hourglass is empty. I'm_ _going to fill it and wrap it around my neck. I will let it rest against my chest._

_Sincerely,_

_Your Trepidation_

\--

Crowley’s ear is to the ice, listening to the trapped howl of the wind carried from the sea.

He doesn’t remember those who came before him. Their writing is scribbled beneath the frozen tundra but he’s never close enough to read. He can’t control the movement of the ice.

He can press his cheek against the ground and listen to that new cracking burst of language. The land communicates while he lies awake translating into madness.

If he rests his back against the wall of the ice cave he calls home, he can pretend to be a part of it but somehow he knows he’ll never possess the knowledge. It is always out of reach from him.

The wolves move in strange patterns. They traverse the mountain in an aimless bid to find what he’s searching for.

Except he’s without a pack.

He could tell you why he’s surrounded by the artifacts of ghosts and that the clothes he’s wearing aren’t his own. They belonged to someone and now they belong to him.

Tired as the wind is, it stays and sticks to his skin like salt. He’s accepted its gift like any other; begrudgingly hopeful.

This land is harsh but true. It may be the last honest thing he’ll ever know. It doesn’t exaggerate. It stakes a claim beyond which one can comprehend. He has met his match, only it is not a single entity but a combination of dirt.

The question of who he is is but a dead-end because in the reflection of the ice it tells a lie. His name is this, his name is that. The next time he shakes a hand he will be someone else.

 _What_ he is, is the more apt response.

Although it isn’t answered in words but in the dark cold where it's quiet.

\--

He’s not without his own code of conduct. It makes a primitive sort of sense.

The sand at the gates of Eden now congregates in the hourglass around his neck.

Funny thing really, he never expected to miss him but Aziraphale would at least listen to his incessant ramblings.

\--

_Aziraphale,_

_I promised more dread, didn’t I? I’ve got to keep you busy and I_ ' _ve come upon the glow of a fire._

_A new pack._

_Sincerely,_

_The Nightmare._

-

The night mist rests on the edge of the mountain pass. It’s slithering onward and it brings about the lack of warmth. They’ve all collectively gave their breath to the horizon.

He watches the group meander in a circle, speaking in low voices as if they could wake the ice below them.

Did they know a snowstorm was upon them in the early hours? Or that their rations were dwindling faster than they anticipated?

He times his greeting just as the wind picks up and billows. He snaps his boots against the ground and the first dark figure turns to him, pointing like a prophet.

A man in a cloak that dances around his beard answers, “Who are you?”

That question again. The wrong question. They always ask it.

\--

What did freedom mean?

It meant a smile too quick to notice and the lack of ease. It meant he could grapple with the ancient sand of some wretched beach. He could stand next to his other who is unburdened from shadow.

He remembers falling and they thought they could break him open. They thought they could vanquish the proverbial monster.

He once wandered for a long time, through the tall grasses and dying forest. He had escaped. He was part of the world again.

“What do you think, Aziraphale?” He asks.

There isn’t an answer of course but he waits out of respect in case the wind decides to whisper.

“Is this our legacy?”

\--

The group is nestled by the fire in the biting wind and they offer Crowley rest by the warmth. It had been some time since he came across others and he opened his journal to draw them. He cast them inside the pages like prisoners.

Four sketches of the huddled miserable.

“You got a name?” A woman from the group utters.

He smears their eyes in the sketch to give them the illusion of a blindfold. It’s better this way.

“Do you often name things that crawl out of ice?” He asks.

“You have a peculiar way about you.” An older man with an unkempt beard adds. He looks suspicious and he gives in to their scrutiny.

“Crowley.” He answers and is tempted to roll his eyes when there is only silence in return.

_Aziraphale,_

_The blizzard has gone away with my waning interest in these travelers. They allow me the privilege to join them but I am an outsider to them. They don’t trust me._

_Do you remember that conversation we had by the sea long ago? I watched you sway beneath the smoldering sun and I was silent to it. That was the last time I felt the quiet without deceit._

_Sincerely,_

_The Pendulum_

\--

They fight over scraps of food and he doesn’t bother to pretend he needs any. He sketches away in this useless journal which is scarred by the ice. He tears a page out and lets the fire eat it as an offering. It spits embers at him as a reply and the suspicious bearded man watches. His eyes squint and Crowley offers him a sharp grin in return.

The bearded man sees beyond the surface of surviving and Crowley invites him to hate him for his lack of remorse.

It is a few more days before they find another dark dripping cave and the man approaches him.

The others are trying to find some form of slumber but the cold makes them shiver.

Crowley removes a book he took from Aziraphale from his satchel and rests it on his knee. His legs are outstretched in front of him and his back is to the wall. There is a comfortable flickering of the firelight as the man sits in front of him.

“You do not sit by the fire?” He asks and Crowley rests his fingers on the book.

“I am warm enough.” He answers and the man eyes him carefully. He’s cataloging the corpse of Crowley’s appearance.

“I know what you are.”

“What am I?”

His breath floats between them and he leans back comfortably.

“An apparition of some kind. You’ve come to watch us die.” He looks frightened but reserved as if he’s spoken with devils before.

“I’m not a ghost. I assure you.”

The man coughs loudly against his hand and continues, “you don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you aren’t cold. What are you?”

Crowley sets the book down beside him and replies, “One night of warmth.”

The man stares at him in puzzlement until the surrounding cave becomes much like a cocoon from the outside. The ice surrounding the walls begins to slowly melt and drip down onto the wet ground.

He watches the quiet terror form in the man’s eyes.

It was a taste. A taste of comfort and a taste of ease. That is all it takes.

The man was wrong. He does need to eat but not in the way he understands it. He does sleep but not in the way he understands it and he is the cold, he is the firelight.

He is the shadow before sleep.

\--

Daylight is a concept not yet realized.

He looks on beyond the travelers to the mountain peak. The bearded man never told him his name but he gleaned it from overhearing idle conversation. It is Peter and how fitting it is.

“Why do you travel with us?” Peter asks him later and he looks haggard from grieving the light.

“It’s easy to lose one's wits through aloneness.”

Crowley’s response isn’t quite satisfactory but he doesn’t give a damn. Peter eyes him and the chill blows in around them. In truth, Crowley doesn’t quite know why he seeks others company because oftentimes he finds himself imagining an angel residing in his periphery.

“It’s only fair that we share the burden.“ Peter attempts to play the role of a saint but everyone requires an opposite opposing action.

“Fairness is an illusion, Peter but I won’t begrudge you of fantasies,” Crowley replies.

_Aziraphale,_

_I’ve waited for the cold to claim the others but it’s refrained from entertaining the idea. The ice reminds me of you. It lingers and collects but in the end it simply isn’t up to the task of conquering. At least not yet._

_Sincerely,_

_A False Pilgrim_

\--

The boredom has finally sunk its claws in but Crowley requires that he stick to this spontaneous pilgrimage. He’s never experienced a tethering the way he has with the angel and it has set him off course.

He should be breathing corruption and inciting infighting in the dwindling survivors of this group he’s attached himself to but he doesn’t. Instead, he thinks of dreary epitaphs on existentialism.

He grimaces at his own failure and sighs loudly waking one of the sleeping travelers who glares at him from beneath their wrapped hood.

Is this how it is going be then? Will he ruminate on his inadequacies of the heart further beyond this sad little journey? 

The song of wolves snatches his self-pity away and he spots two of the beasts running up the mountainside as if they’ve abandoned their pack.

The unease doesn’t dissipate. It devours what was left of the boredom.

The two fleeing wolves are silhouettes against the darkness and he can spot their trail entwining further into shadow.

There is no morning, there is only night and the cold he can’t feel but he senses the misery in this group and he knows he could take it away. He could banish their fears and devour their nightmares but he doesn’t.

He suffers with them but in a different way. It’s mythological how the land acts through apathy and he learns from it even if he’d never admit it.

\--

The others have taken to calling him a Reaper and he hears the word from their cracked lips. He’ll take it as a compliment but not as an accomplishment. They don’t try to start meaningless conversations with him any longer. They are too afraid to exile him from their company.

For the first time, he acknowledges the evolution of his nature against the changing landscape.

_Aziraphale,_

_I could abandon this endeavor and find you somewhere beneath the scorching sunlight but not yet._

_Therein lies the ridiculous truth of it. You corrupted me, didn’t you? It was supposed to be me that planted the dark. When was it that we intermingled? I can’t seem to tell my thoughts from yours._

_Thank you for the misery,_

_Your Affliction_

_\--_

This misery is a gift and the pain of it is something to quell him even if facing this treacherous conclusion is evitable.

“Insufferable.” He says aloud in a whisper and Peter (the pretend saint) stares at him as if he’s brandishing a dagger.

“Not you…go on now,” Crowley adds and Peter scurries ahead of the group like a rodent. 

He hates them; this group he’s still traveling with. Hate is something he knows well though and in it lies a comfort.

It’s later that night that an older woman (who’s name he doesn’t much care to know) asks him when it is she will meet death.

“Not a clue,” Crowley supplies her and she looks disappointed.

He could make something up but he lacks the will to do so. Instead, he adds, “do you love someone?”

She looks taken aback by the change in topic but her expression sinks, “I lost him in the first blizzard.”

Crowley sighs and says, “nevermind, goodnight then.”

He grips the book of letters that thickens with each passing day and idly observes the flickering of shadows that reveal familiar shapes. The fire is like a memory but once realized, it is burned away.

Deep in the dark is an answer and this time he doesn’t turn away from it when the thought traps his mind. He lifts the hourglass from his neck and sets it upright in front of him as if he held time itself captive.

There’s no going back now.


	2. The Ticking Heart

The ice devoured the hourglass and with it Crowley’s last chance to feign ignorance on the concept of shared space.

At the edge of the mountain, he succumbs to the beauty of the view. Very few things impress him these days but the way the blade of sunlight opens up the snow is worthy of praise.

Standing at the precipice of the world, he is half tempted to build an angel-shaped snowman beside him. He’s admitted to himself the ridiculousness of the notion but he glares at the piles of snow anyway.

_Aziraphale,_

_I was angry before but now that I’m sulking in the ice on a mountain I understand your loss of presence. I tried to mold myself into someone who could conceive of existing without your bumbling eagerness but I’m at a loss._

_Your (dare I say) friend,_

_Failed Hermit_

He slept in a cave far enough away from the miserable group he still traveled with. He kept thinking of the meaning of friendship like a besotted human but the word lies there in the dark beside him.

They were friends, weren’t they?

By morning light, he decides to lie in the snow against the cliff and listens to the mumbling of the travelers. Perhaps they think he’s dead or that he’s communing with a natural insanity. The latter seems more apt to the situation.

Peter steps above him looking spooked as if he drew a straw to see if he was still alive.

“Do you have any friends, Peter?” Crowley asks.

Peter says nothing and saunters away with a bit of rude disappointment. Crowley sits up and the snow melts around him into a wet messy puddle. They whisper and he yawns against the backdrop of the clouds.

He grimly thinks of avalanches. Although, he knows Aziraphale wouldn’t appreciate it if he were to reward the travelers with his anger.

He isn’t angry with them personally, he’s just fed up with this whole obsession he’s attempting to quell. He thought that by confronting the "problem" it would be easier for it to disappear. It only became much more apparent.

\--

That night the wolves come to claim them and the firelight is their only source of refuge. After hearing the growls and watching the panic set in amongst the others, he stands to walk to the edge of the dark.

The shadows welcome him home but he doesn’t step into their embrace. The bright eyes of the pack of wolves take shape and they blink at him from the dark.

They’re hungry much like his human traveling companions and he wonders calmly what that kind of animalistic hunger could feel like. He’s attempted to dance with the primordial and to pretend that blood is a calling but it was a lie.

He smells the sweaty terror from the group behind him and he knows they wish for him to protect them in their desperation.

“I understand.” He tells the wolves because he feels akin to their restlessness.

Those bright eyes slowly fade away back into the darkness and the howling resounds from far off. The ghost call is a sign of relief for the travelers but it merely serves to remind Crowley how little he belongs.

_Aziraphale,_

_When I see the sun I pretend your silhouette has taken form from a crooked rockface. I think you’d be proud of my restraint. I haven’t brought the mountain down or let the others be eaten. I got in the way of nature and because of that, I understand how rare we are. You and I are part of something else. We’ve become unchained and whether you wish to believe or not we’ve fallen somewhere else. Perhaps, we’ve fallen on the other side of things._

_Your friend,_

_Tamer of Wolves_

\--

Deep down in the roots of the earth, Crowley thinks he can store his thoughts there. He tears a page from the journal and folds it into a small square. He plants it in the soil beneath the snow and curiously ponders what kind of tree such confessions could grow.

“Thank you.” The tired voice of a woman expresses behind him. He turns back to look at her huddled form and he waves away the praise.

“Yes, yes…”

He dismisses the attempts at bonding because it seems these travelers only understand kindness through survival.

They sleep easier though and they regard him differently albeit still warily.

He pretends to read but thinks in the abstract and lends his mind to the void until time blurs beyond them. He didn’t think beauty could be created from grief and yet as they reach the top he feels the comfort found there.

These travelers never intended to make it back down the mountain on their pilgrimage. They came here to die and Crowley realizes that as they finally sit down to rest.

He sits against the rock wall next to Peter who doesn’t protest. He looks accepting to all things and the tiredness feels more like an accomplishment.

“If it is food you need, I can provide it,” Crowley says and Peter shakes his head, “that won’t be necessary.”

“Well, that won’t do,” Crowley exclaims. He didn’t come here to watch them die, he came here to get his thoughts in order. He came here to breathe and find existence beyond Aziraphale but there is only an incomprehensible void.

“We chose this.” Peter says and Crowley sneers, “none of you chose this, I did this, I wanted this. I created this.”

There’s silence as Crowley stands and faces the group with his coat billowing around him. The ice wind imprisons them against the rock.

“This isn’t a test of some bloody higher calling. This is me.”

It’s his self-pity manifest and it is getting far too dramatic for his liking. He didn’t wish for a tragedy and certainly not a tale about forgiveness or letting go.

“You know what eternity is?” He asks them and spots a bird as if it’s crawled out of his ruminations. It has come to sharpen its beak on the mountain and take the souls left.

The ground begins to rumble as if his prediction has come true but before the travelers are swallowed by the dirt Crowley snaps them away.

\--

It isn’t but a moment later that they find themselves in a dark forest at the base of the mountain. The travelers gasp and grapple in confusion. Crowley observes a dead tree that’s been struck by lightning with mild irritation.

“What’s happened? What have you done?” Peter wails.

“I've taken the illusion.”

The miserable group lives and the mountain starves.

"You've taken our will!" Peter cries.

"You now have a choice to continue with this useless misery or seek it elsewhere," Crowley’s reply is the last thing he speaks before taking his leave. 

He doesn’t look back or wait for them to follow. This is his journey and he can’t take them with him. He’s taken the blindfold off the world and even though it is far too bright for his liking, it is real. It is broken and evolving.

He wasn’t meant to be a wretched creature but he longs for the howl even if there is no moon. He closes his eyes at the edge of the woods and thinks of Aziraphale traversing an ocean of sand.

He tears another page from the journal and plants it in front of the forest. He watches the soil make room for his tree and he lifts his hand as if to smooth it over the horizon.

The green mountains ahead begin to fade into sand and his feet move through the soil to the dunes. If this is where Aziraphale is spending his time he didn’t see any reason to delay the reunion.

Crowley's form is different than what it was on the mountain but the construct of his appearance makes no difference. It’s beneath in that dark chamber that houses something like a heart, where Aziraphale will recognize him.

He sets his hand to his chest curiously with his head tilted to the side as if he can feel it beating. He huffs and watches the sand blow across the dunes the way that migratory birds do. It’s choreographed and Crowley closes his eyes with a small smile. He recognizes the signature Aziraphale left on this place because it is stronger than his. He’d pretend to find it meddlesome but the sense of warmth that vibrates in the sand sends him onward.

_Aziraphale,_

_I’ve counted the separation enough. I’ve put a mountain in my path to you and it did nothing. The bird appeared again and all I could think of was how you’d eternally bring it back to life. One can hope the irritation is shared but I gather that it is._

_I saw you in the sand and I brought myself here. I’m hoping that my pointless pilgrimage is near an end. It is all your fault._

_Your Other,_

_Crowley_

\--

The night is filled with innumerable stars and he lifts his finger to clear the clouds from the bright brilliance. This vast desert is an answer but not one that requires a voice. He simply ponders how he could have walked this landscape for an eternity and not have realized that they are two parts of the sky. The night and the day have found a way to cradle time between them.

He tears another page out of the journal and buries it in the sand beneath him. He watches it for a moment as roots eat up the dirt and a tree cracks free with white oddly shaped leaves. It looms over him a moment later and he rests his hand to the bark. It’s the only tree in the landscape of sand.

Was it a marker?

He thinks that in some ways it could be much like a bookmark. He’s saved this chapter of their chronicle and he shakes his head at himself. He truly feels like a besotted fool.

Beneath the crescent moon is an old ruin half-buried in the sand. He spots the flash of light that first appears blinding. His eyes adjust as they always do and he steps inside the ancient skeleton of a building.

On the table, he spots the light reflected off of a golden pocket watch. It rests, alive, ticking and waiting for him like a new heart. He snatches it from the table and opens it. Inside, a message slowly burns its way across the gears.

Aziraphale had left this for him and he’d been called away to Heaven but at the bottom engraved as if it was always there is:

_Ten years time_

That is when they’d meet and Crowley doesn’t need a map. The pocket watch in his hand weighed as light as a feather and it would be the guide. He had given him a temporary piece of himself to Crowley. The gesture should by nature make him want to crush the watch beneath him but he’s only ever played by his own rules.

He holds the watch up to the moon and the light reflects in a fractal line leading him further into the desert. He sighs with a small mumble of curses. His pilgrimage has yet to meet its end.

He closes the watch with a snap and slips it into his pocket.

Demons don’t horde sentiment but he didn’t give a damn. Naturally, he keeps it close and sees to it that it never receives a scratch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
